In Memoriam
by somethinginthewayful
Summary: "He left you a note: You didn't come back, so I'm coming to you - John" Inspired by a post I saw on tumblr, John relives the memories and accepts that Sherlock is gone. Implied JohnLock, warning for "violent" description. One-shot, drabble. R&R please.


_In Memoriam_

**A/N: I apologize in advance, but this is just a solidly depressing post-Reichenbach drabble that wouldn't leave me alone after I saw a post on tumblr about the phone call at the end. I just had to write it out. **

**For those of you that may be reading my Sherlolly fic "The Domestic Analysis" expect an update by Friday night (EST) otherwise, I hope you all enjoy this.**

**Disclaimer: Much love for Mofftiss and co. who own my loves, I'm just borrowing them for a bit. **

It's months before John learns how to breath again, and even then he's not sure it's the same as it was before the fall. He took his own leap months later as he stepped out of his dingy bed-sit and knocked on the front door of 221B Baker Street. He had spent months walled up in depression and guilt, living off his savings and eating minimally, spending most of his time reading old blog posts and journals of Sherlock's.

Each morning he would check the count on his blog. Directly after his death the counter skyrocketed, John's blog mad with activity but now it had stalled. With the lack of posts from John and the stigma that hung around both Sherlock and Watson the blog had stilled. Nevertheless, he checked it everyday for a sign.

Each time he typed in the web address he waited with baited breath, hoping to see a message from Sherlock, a signal that all of this nonsense was over. None came, disappointment would flood him each time the webpage loaded and little by little acceptance crept in.

John also made it a project to understanding Sherlock's shorthand. Although his brain was his hard drive he kept dozens of moleskin notebooks full of observations, deductions, cases, and hastily drawn sketches of mechanisms and gagets. It took months to decode the illegible scrawl but John didn't mind, he was holding on as long as he could. He successfully held on to him for months as he talked to the air, addressing Sherlock by name as he paged through the notes.

When he got to their end the feeling of dread snaked its way in again. He recieved no Irene Adler style text messages - _I'm not dead, let's have dinner _never once appeared on the screen. Instead he would page through their old conversations and John realized just how many times Sherlock and texted him and he hadn't answered. Granted, most of the messages were in relation to cases or prodding him about evidence but John still rarely answered. Each night before bed he would relive their friendship through his archive of texts as they ranged from homicidal to domestic. With each gray square of text John could hear his chastising voice, his patronizing laugh, his exasperated sigh and he missed him all the more.

John would scrunch his eyes tightly closed and picture their lives along with each text, where he was when he recieved it, where he imagined Sherlock might have been.

John would pause as he re-read one of his texts to Sherlock: _Not guilty? This is insane!_

Sherlock's curt reply hadn't shocked him: _Obviously._

John had waited to address this until he had gotten back to their flat at which point he exploded in a fury of rage and confusion. Moriarty was a sick criminal mastermind, and he was just going to walk free?

Each night the texts would fly by in quick succession. A melange of case notes and domesticated commands, each one making John stop and remember.

_New evidence, meet at Bart's - SH_

_ You've missed the bigger picture about the gardener - SH_

_ Milk. - SH_

_ You've forgotten your wallet - SH_

_ Stop by Bart's, ask Molly if there are fresh bodies in - SH_

_ Progress on your errand for Mycroft? - SH_

_ The tickets are under 'Holmes' - SH_

_ Chinese number 4 - SH_

_ Are you at Tesco? - SH_

_ Could be dangerous - SH_

_ If inconvienant, come anyway. - SH_

_ Baker Street. Come at once if convienant - SH_

They flew by in a flurry of memories, each one making him sicker than the last as he traveled back in time, every detail vibrantly thrust before his eyes as he relived their adventures. Strangely, he found the memories before Sherlock were muted, lacking definite dialogue and detail.

Now as he stood before the door of 221B, lowering his hand after rapping it against the wood grain three times, he felt another rush of memories, another influx of Sherlock. When the door swung open John smiled as broadly as he could, "Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh John, dear!" she greeted like they hadn't seen each other in years.

"Is the flat still... is it," John began, he had planned to do this with more resolve but felt himself floudering when confronted with the situation.

"Just the way you both left it," she confessed, "couldn't bring myself to throw anything away just yet,"

A sigh of relief shuddered through him. If there had been new lodgers his plan would have fallen through right then and there. Where would that leave him? John brought himself back to reality and gave her a warm hug, "Ta,"

"I hate to do this," Mrs. Hudson sighed and continued back towards 221A, "but I've got a class, Thursday's my night out you know,"

"I'd forgot," he said, but he hadn't, "would you mind if I just..." he looked up the stairs

. "Course, love," she reached around the door and fished a key off the wall, pushing it into John's open palm and kissing his cheek before wrapping a scarf around her neck and heading for the door, "Stay as long as you like, I'll be back round eight. If you're still here I'll make you a cuppa,"

"Ta," he said again, "Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson,"

"Bye love," she waved but did not look back.

As the door clicked shut John felt paralyzingly alone, the pain in his leg that he had not felt for over two years lapped angrily at his muscles and he groaned, leaning forward slighty and finding his strength on the bannister.

There was nowhere else to go but up.

John began to climb the steps, remembering the way each of them creaked out their own unique sighs before he stood frozen again on the landing. He was unsure how long he stood there staring into the flat, afraid to walk forwards and push the ajar door open completely.

Sod it.

John gathered his strength and dove headlong inside, bumping against the side table and staring at the familiar armchairs and long couch that Sherlock used to spread himself across. Mrs. Hudson still cleaned it would seem since only a fine layer of dust could be observed on the mantle and bookshelves.

John absently remembered what Sherlock had said about patterns in the dust and he scanned the shelves, wanting desperately for there to be a deviation, a space wiped clean from where Sherlock might have been trying to signal John that he was still alive. Once again there was none and John felt the sinking feeling return.

He skimmed his hand over the mantle and took in the pieces of their life as flatmates. Weighing the skull in his hands he overturned it and peered inside the hollowed out cranium, tucked inside were an assortment of nicotine patches. For those pesky three patch problems. With a shudder he replaced it on the mantle and continued gazing down the line, the penknife still jabbed into the wood where Sherlock had stabbed it awkward upon their first meeting. The waving Lucky Cat that John had bought them as a joke, "remember the case of the blind banker?" John would say.

It took him no time at all to pass by the kitchen and push straight through into Sherlock's bedroom, his throat constricted and his heart tight in his chest. He barely ever invaded this space while Sherlock was alive and now the intrusion seemed awkward and unwarrented. John studied it for a moment and realized how empty it was, on the rare occassion Sherlock slept he would occupy this room for a few hours and quit it as quickly as he could. Nothing could slow him down from cases. Until now.

Strewn on the made bed was a dark purple shirt John recognized as one of Sherlock's staples. He picked it up with shaking fingers and pressed the fabric to his face, breathing deeply and feeling Sherlock's prescence all around him. When he finally pulled back there was nothing, not even a stirring in the air.

It was in this moment that he accepted.

Tears rolled down John's face hot and fast, dripping down onto the dark shirt. John turned quickly and left the bedroom, the shirt still clutched his palm. Crossing to his old desk he pulled out a pen and small strip of paper, scrawling a quick note and taking it to the couch with him. Sitting down he felt the weights lift off his shoulders and the familiarity bathe him, the couch was dented in slightly from where Sherlock often sat with his knees curled up to his chest. John shifted to sit in the small dip and nodded - it was time to go.

He had orchestrated this moment very carefully and went over the plan once more in his mind as he removed the handgun from his jacket pocket, placing it on the coffee table in front of him. Laying the shirt over his knee he patted it and reached now for his mobile.

He made the call quickly and after two rings there was an answer, "Detective Inspector Lestrade,"

"You'll want to come to Baker Street as soon as you can," John said clearly.

"John? That you?" Lestrade asked, clearly startled by the abrupt contact.

"Yes," John replied, "please do as I say," John clicked the phone off before he could hear a reply and set the mobile on the couch beside him.

There wouldn't be much time to waste now. Folding the note and gripping it tightly in one fist he reached out for the gun with his other hand and clicked off the safety.

He exhaled a shuddering breath before getting his bearings and feeling his hand go steady with the familiar weight of the gun. He rested his finger alongside the trigger and took one last look around the flat.

"Goodbye Sherlock," John murmured, "I..." he struggled for a moment, "oh, you know right well that I love you,"

In one fluid motion John nodded to himself and placed the nozzle of the gun between his teeth, making sure to angle it correctly before resting his finger against the trigger and letting his eyes slip closed. He exhaled softly before calming his mind and letting his finger drop pressure on the trigger.

Three hours later and across London Molly Hooper was wheeling a body into the wall for safe keeping. The morgue phone rang shrilly and she groaned, grabbing it up with one hand and leaning against the desk, "Hello?"

"Molly," an uncomfortable voice murmured, "it's Greg, Greg Lestrade,"

"Hi," she answered, "is everything all right?"

"'Fraid not," he confessed, "there's... there was a bit of an accident,"

She sobered up from sleep deprivation immediately, "What's happened?"

"John shot himself at Baker Street," Lestrade said in one breath.

Molly felt the floor give out from under her and her knees buckled, she slipped down on the linoleium floor with the phone still clutched to her face, "Oh God,"

"Look, I know this is going to be difficult," Lestrade cleared his throat, "but he's en route to Bart's as we speak, you'll need to... you'll have to be the one to,"

"I understand," Molly nodded to herself, "I understand,"

"It's a tragedy," he said, more to himself that to Molly.

"I have to go," she dropped the phone back on the receiver without another word and pressed her cold fingers to her face.

What would she do now? How could she... Molly's mind was beginning to swim with scenarios and what if's, she wanted to wretch at the thought.

When she finally heard the orderlies bringing down the body bag she lost it, leaning into a morgue bucket and losing her lunch, John Watson was dead. By the time the morgue doors were pushed open she had righted herself and pushed the bucket of sick out of sight.

"Hey Molly," one of the friendlier female orderlies greeted.

"Hi," she cleared her throat, "hey,"

"So, we've got a suicide here," the woman lifted her hands off the metal wheeled cart and handed over the hastily written up chart, "John Waton aged forty, found dead in his flat by a bullet to the brain,"

Molly nodded but felt sick again at the crass way she was addressing his death. She plastered a small smile on her face and pretended to read over the chart, "Got it from here, thanks,"

When the woman left she felt the room still again. Alone with a body was something she was used to, but alone with the body of a friend was an experience she wasn't able to grasp. With shaking hands Molly undid the zipper on the black body bag and shook her head in disbelief, tears filling her eyes.

John's eyes were closed, a serene look over his weary face despite the visible tear tracts. A bit of blood stained the corner of his mouth, but the most of the damage was done to the back of the skull which was clearly blown out. Molly felt sick again but locked her teeth and pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves before touching him.

He was dressed as Molly remembered him: plaid shirt, jumper, and jeans. It became increasingly painful to look over him knowing that is grief over Sherlock's death had put him here. He had loved him so deeply, it was more obvious now than ever before.

Molly studied him carefully and paused when she saw his clenched fist, uncharacteristically tensed given the rest of his calm body. Carefully she turned his fist over and eased it open, fighting the stiffness of his dead joints to peer inside. Pressed in his palm was a scrap of paper, she fished it out of his grasp and unfolded it gently.

Her eyes scanned the note quickly and the tears that had threatened to fall were now cascading down her cheeks, the pain was glaring. Everything was suddenly unfair and Moriarty's cruelness that much more plain.

She mopped up her tears with her sleeve and sniffed until she regained some sense of a normal voice before slipping her mobile out of her pocket and dialing home. She let it ring once before she hung up and called again.

4.3 miles away Sherlock Holmes was tucked up inside Molly Hooper's aging flat, hiding from civilization as he fervently investigated each strand of Jim Moriarty's spiderweb. Sooner or later he would find the piece that would unravel it all and bring him home again.

The phone rang once and broke up out of his reverie on the computer. When it arrested after one shrill tone he waited - there were several possibilities but the most probable were either wrong number or the emergency phone call from Molly.

When it rang again he reached across the desk with ease and clicked it on, "Yes?"

"I've got to tell you something," He listened as Molly sniffed uncomfortably. She had been crying.

"Which is?" Sherlock sat up and listened more carefully.

She confessed it with an exhale, "He's dead, Sherlock, they found him a few hours ago at Baker Street. He shot himself in the head," he could hear her struggling to continue as he processed the information, "He left a note: _You didn't come back, so I'm coming to you - John_."

Sherlock was very still before he lowered the phone from his ear, barely hearing her continued speech, "Sherlock? Sherlock are you still there? Please, Sherlock!"

As the phone fell silent Sherlock leaned forward, his steepled fingers pressed against him lips. John was dead, and it was his fault. For the first time in years Sherlock allowed himself to cry, earnestly. With his hands pressed to his face Sherlock Holmes cried for John Watson who would never know the truth.

He then began to contemplate how best to join him.

**A/N: Okay. I'm sorry, I know. I feel terrible for even writing it out, and I was totally crying while doing it. It just had to be done. I love you all and I hope you enjoyed it. Please drop me a review if you did and check out my tumblr (gingerteatime) if you feel so inclined. **

**I love you all.**

**-x**


End file.
